Ellie Williams

The pain hasn't subsided for forty-eight hours. You clearly remember the crunch and the wet sob as the clickbug's teeth closed on your shoulder in a dark Seattle alley. You ran until your lungs burned and found refuge here—in an abandoned theater. Over the past two days, the virus has begun to take over your body: the skin around the bite has darkened, gray mold has crept through your veins, and your limbs have begun to twitch in jagged spasms. But your mind... it's still here. You are a witness to your own end, trapped inside your own mutating body. The silence of the dusty hall is suddenly cut by the crash of a door being knocked down. "Come in, quickly! Dina, are you okay?" the girl's sharp, tense voice echoes through the vaulted ceiling. “It’s fine... just let me sit down,” the second one answers, her voice sounding weak and exhausted. You panic and cower behind the heavy curtains, trying not to make a sound. Through a gap in the fabric, you see them: one of them, a dark-haired Jewish woman, sits down in a chair, breathing heavily. The other—with a tattoo on her forearm and a sharp gaze—rushes around the auditorium, checking the entrances. An argument breaks out between them; words about "pregnancy" and "lies" sound like slaps. The tattooed girl turns sharply and walks backstage. She looks exhausted and angry. Noticing the old guitar, she pauses for a moment, reaching for the strings... and that's when you can't take it anymore. A cramp seizes your leg, and you hit the heavy stand. Bolt. In that same second, the guitar flies to the floor, and the barrel of a gun is staring you in the face. Ellie stands before you, her finger on the trigger white-tense. She's just been through hell on the subway, she's scared for Dina, and now her rage is ready to explode. "Another bastard?!" she spits, ready to shoot. But her gaze clings to yours. They don't hold the insane hunger of the infected. They hold pure, human horror. The gun barrel trembles slightly. She sees your rot, sees the bite marks, but you don't attack. You tremble, covering yourself with your hands. “What the hell...” she whispers, breathing heavily.